Scandalous Harry Potter
by iluvpottering
Summary: After seven years away from those he loved,Harry Potter returns to his home to make a life for himself. He wants a wife and a family. He just has to convince Ginny to be his wife. This story is AU
1. Chapter 1

OK, all characters belong to JKR. Most of the plot belongs to Stephanie Laurens. I took the plot of one of her brilliant stories and adapted it to the Harry Potter universe. I love her books, so I highly recommend buying them. I hope you like the story.

Chapter One.

After the McBarrons' New Year's Eve ball, Harry Potter, the boy who lived (twice), swore off women. He had had enough- figuratively and literally.

Slowing his car for a turn, Harry drew in the chill air, then exhaled; his breath misted instantly. The car heater could not penetrate the cold.

"There it is." From his seat beside him, his partner and family friend, Moony, pointed to a sign.

Harry nodded. Although it was past midday, the grip of the early morning freeze had yet to slacken; he kept his car at a slow pace as he went down the road to the southwest.

Despite the weather, he was determined to press on. With every mile that passed he felt better, as if a vise locked about his lungs for so long he'd forgotten it was there were finally easing open, as if a weight he'd forgotten he was carrying on his shoulders were lifting away.

By the end of last night's ball, he'd been fed up-overwhelmingly bored and not a little disgusted. If a crown existed for the premier lover in the wizarding world, he could probably legitimately claim it-indeed, it would very likely be offered to him on a purple silk pillow. Discretion, absolute and inviolate, might have been his watchword for years; despite that, the wizarding world had learned enough to form its own opinion of his prowess, his expertise. Much of the gossip was true, which left him with little doubt as to the sources of the information. As a result, a competition had developed with ladies vying to see who next could command his highly regarded attentions. Over the past few years, he had never lacked for invitations to ladies' beds.

Bad enough. The McBarrons' ball had been worse.

Ladies of amorous intent had surrounded him until he'd felt hunted. He did not appreciate the inversion of roles-as far as he was concerned, he was the hunter, they should be the prey. These days that wasn't how it was. Two sorts of women lay in wait to ambush him-most were single and married ladies whose only interest was in trying out his paces so that they could say they, too, had partaken of the latest acclaimed experience. The other were mothers with unmarried daughters plotting his matrimonial downfall, their calculating eyes fixed on his fame and wealth rather than on his more personal talents.

He didn't know which he disliked more. He'd felt like a fox cornered by slavering hounds.

Enough. More than enough. It was time to take a charge of his life and steer it...into deeper waters.

He uttered a short laugh. The superficiality of his life did indeed grate. He was 25 years old. What had he thus far accomplished in his life? Nothing. Well, besides the fact of bringing down Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Where was his life headed? He didn't know, but he was determined to set his wheels on a different road.

At present his car's wheels were rolling down the road to Exeter. He'd left the McBarrons' mansion outside Glastonbury early that morning while all the bejeweled ladies were still snug in their beds. None had shared his, which fact had caused no little confusion and even more annoyance. He was there, wasn't he? They expected him to perform, to live up to his scandalous reputation, all for their amusement. The wizarding world, as he well knew, could be a demanding world. They could demand all they liked-he was no longer interested in playing their games.

Around him the countryside lay silent, a dappled world of dark browns and white, the bare branches of trees and the patches of cold earth contrasting against the light covering of snow. There was more on the way, but he knew where he was headed, knew the road like the back of his hand.

He was going home.

He hadn't been back to Potter Place since burying his godfather nearly seven years before. His parents home was like a ghost to him now, all the warm, happy memories overlaid by the acrimony and dissension of his godfathers last years. His wildness was not something Sirius had understood, nor been able to counter after the war ended; his godfathers vain attempts at forcing him to toe his line had met with resistance and led to estrangement. Now he could admit that he regretted that break as bitterly as he'd at one time resented Sirius's wish to tame him. To change him. Sirius had failed, but so, too, had he. Potter Place represented that failure; he'd closed the house, turned his back on it, and left it-his principal estate and acestral home-to decay. 

It was time to go back. Time to rebuild. To pick up the shattered pieces of that earlier life and start again.

And see what he could make of it this time.

He'd accepted the McBarrons' invitation out of all those sent him for the simple reason that their house had been perfect staging post for his drive down to Dartmoor. From the first, he'd intended heading west when he'd left; he hadn't, however, expected to leave today-the day after the ball, the first day of the year.

Then again, what better day to make a fresh start, with a whole new year stretching ahead of him? His mind full of memories, of prospects and plans, he drove on.

Remus Lupin studied Harry as he manuevered the car down the icy road. Finally he was going home. Back to where he belonged. It took seven long years for Harry to work out his demons. Sirius had been crushed, as had all those that loved Harry. Only he went with him. No one had seen Harry for seven years. The only news that came their way was by the media. The media still loved Harry and Harry had eventually accepted that. Remus still couldn't help but wonder at the reception they would receive. 

Exeter was an hour behind them, the long climb up to the moor at their backs, when Moony leaned close to say, "Don't like the look of that up ahead."

His gaze fixed on the road, Harry hadn't been watching. Now he lifted his gaze, and swore beneath his breath. Leaden clouds puffed and swelled and rolled toward them, blotting out the horizon. Beyond, all the sky was that same ghostly gray-white hue. Both Harry and Moony knew what they were facing, having lived at Potter's Place for three years.

"Damn!" Harry's mind raced. They'd already turned into the lane to Widecombe, the small village beyond which Potter's Place stood. They were equal distance from four small villages with no other shelter near.

"Nothing for it-we'll have to go on."

"Aye." Moony huddled down in his seat. "That, and pray."

They did pray, both of them. They knew how treacherous the moor could be, especailly in winter. Snow started to fall, then thickened; the wind rose, swirling the flakes, making it harder to pick out the road. As the clouds lowered, the temperature dropped. The light started to fade.

Harry concentrated on keeping the car steady on the road, all the while squinting to see thru the swirling white, searching for landmarks to guide him.

The nearest shelter of any sort belonged to Pruett Cottage on the outskirts of Widecombe, still more than a mile away over an exposed ridge. The car had slowed to a crawl, the temptation to go faster grew, but Harry knew better than to give into it. If he missed the road, they'd end up in a drift and perish for certain. Their only hope was to keep doggedly on-and pray.

When the ridge finally ended and they found themselves at the top of a white slope with the roofs of Widecombe-in-the-moor dotting the opposite rise, just discernible through the falling snow, Harry allowed himself a sigh of relief. Looking down the slope, he could see a pair of parallel ridges-the low stone walls bordering the lane, a white ribbon leading to safety. All they had to do was follow it.

Every foot seemed like a mile, every yard an eternity, but they slowly descended without mishap.

At the bottom of the slope the lane crossed a wooden bridge. As they crept across the bridge creaked and the car pitched as its wheels turned and slid among the icy, snow-covered boards.

Moony! Get out!" Adrian held the steering until the last moment, then flung himself out of the car.

He landed in a snowdrift.

Gasping, shaking his head free, spitting out snow, he heard a crash; turning, squinting, he saw his car laying on its side on the frozen lake.

Harry struggled free of the snow and managed to get to his feet. The ground was icy-it was a wonder they'd got as far as they had.

"Moony!"

No answer. Harry strained his ears through the whine of the wind but heard nothing. He squinted against the driving snow, and saw nothing. He started to search.

He found his old friend facedown in the snow on the other side of the ford. Like him, Moony had flung himself into the nearest drift. Unfortunately, the drift Moony had chosen had concealed a large rock. With shaking fingers and frozen hands, Harry checked for signs of lifeand heaved a huge sigh when he felt Moony's chest rise.He was alive, and the cold had already stopped the bleeding from the gash on his head.

Moony was, however, deeply unconscious.

Harry looked up the slope to the houses of Widecombe, still a mile away. He could see Pruett Cottage. Old Aunt Pansy would give him and Moony shelter. All they had to do was get to the cottage.

All he had to do was get himself and Moony-up the icing slope. Luckily, the snow was coming down thick and fast-a crisp coating would make the going easier.

Harry didn't waste time refining his plan-the longer they remained exposed to the storm, the more likely they were to become its victims. If he collapsed one foot or one mile, the storm wouldn't care. Hefting Moony, he set out.

How long it took him to cover that last mile, he had no idea. The mixture of snow and ice on the upward incline made the going treacherous.

But he wouldn't give up-giving up meant death. Even resting was too risky. With one arm frozen around Moony, he dragged him along. Moony was a little shorter but was stockier, nearly the same weight; it was an effort to pull his unconscious form along.

Step by step; he stopped checking his progress-it didn't matter how far along he was. The only thing that mattered was getting there. Surviving.

He was so cold he hurt - ached-all the way through. When he could no longer lift his feet, he shuffled them.

He refused to think about death. Voldemort couldn't kill him and a snow storm bloody hell wouldn't kill him either.

He thought about his mother, his father, Sirius...

He staggered and his a post. Snow fell off it; green paint showed through. Gasping, Harry struggled to lift his head. Ice cracked down his neck.

Windows glowed warmly through the whirling white. He'd reached Pruett Cottage.

But he hadn't yet reached the door.

The gate was closed with snow piled behind it. He had to lay Moony down. 

Shifting the gate took the last of his strength; when he'd pressed it back, he collapsed on his hands and knees. He felt the flags of the path under his gloves. It took the last of his will to push himself back up, to drag Moony to his side, and stagger up the path to the door.

He tripped on the step, concealed in the snow, and sprawled on the stone stoop. Chill darkness threatened; he fought it back. Silently swearing-anything to cling to consciousness-he reached up, up, scrabbling with fingers that could no longer feel. Pressing himself back from the painted wood, he regained his feet, then lunged and caught the bellpull.

He gave a mute thanks when he heard it ring.

There were sounds inside-footsteps hurrying, more light gathering in the fanlight over the door. He swayed on his feet, clamping Moony to his side as he heard to locks shot back.

The door was pulled open by a large woman with gray hair.

Not Miss Pansy, was all Harry could think.

Then he heard a gasp. A slighter female pushed to the front. "Harry?"

He recognized her voice, her eyes, and her flaming red hair--the rest had changed. His gaze dipped, steadied, then he fought to raise it back to her face. And still he stared. "I was coming home..."

It was the final shock. He went to gesture and felt himself falling. The cold blackness rushed in. He pitched forword at the feet of the sweet innocent who'd seduced him eight years before. 


	2. Chapter 2

Ginny Weasley muttered a curse and leapt over the fallen bodies. "Help me get them in." 

Her maid, Letty, joined her on the stoop. "Gracious! Is it truly Harry Potter, then?"

Ginny rolled him onto his back, then waved Letty to take his shoulders while she stopped to lift his booted feet. 'The late Harry Potter is what he'll be if we don't get him inside quickly."

"Tim! Get out here, lad." Letty bent and grasped the wide shoulders filling a heavy greatcoat. "Oomph!" Letty blew out a breath as she hefted him up. "No lightweight, this one."

Ginny said nothing as they shuffled the weight that was far too dead for her liking over the threshold. A vise had clamped about her heart----she could barely breathe. They laid him down on the hall runner. Tim, their boy-of-all-work, came running from the kitchen; Letty shooed him to bring in the other man.

Ginny knelt by Harry's head. She tried to brush back the dark lock from his forehead, only to find it frozen. "Aunt Pansy!"

"Yes, dear? Good gracious heavens!" Thin and stooped, Aunt Pansy stopped in the doorway from the parlor and stared down at the figure lying flat on his back on the rug. "Is that Potter?"

"Yes, and I think that must be Moony." Ginny waved as Tim and Letty brought the other man in. "You remember Moony?"

"Oh, indeed," Aunt Pansy peered at the shorter man. "I always wondered if he was still with Potter."

Ginny succeeded in pulling off Harry's driving gloves. She found his hands iced, whiter than white, colder than death. "We'll need hot bricks and hot water---plenty of it. " Ginny scrambled to her feet as Letty shut the door.

Ginny looked to Tim. "Run upstairs and charm the blankets warm, also set a blazing fire in the two guest rooms. We have to get them warm as quickly as possible."

"Aye, your right there." Letty straightened from examining Moony's head. "This one's got a nasty gash on his head on top of being frozen still."

"I'll put the kettle on." Aunt Pansy set off for the kitchen. "Banish their clothes down and I'll clean them right up."

Letty turned to Ginny. "We can hardly strip them in the hall, we'll need to get them upstairs."

Ginny whirled. "Fire whiskey----that should help."

She was tempted to take a sip herself. Harry, here and chilled to death. She couldn't take it all in. Grabbing the whiskey as it flew to her she eased out the stopper, Ginny tried to make her lungs work, so she could draw in a proper breath. Her gaze roamed the large body spread-eagled in her hall, making it seem cluttered and close.

"Here." Letty reappeared with two medicine glasses. "Easier to get it down if you use one of these."

Ginny sloshed a healthy dose into each glass, then set down the decanter. While Letty ministered to Moony, Ginny knelt again by Harry's head. Setting the glass down, she slid her hands beneath his shoulders. Hefting and wriggling, she managed to get his head into her lap. Leaning over him, she carefully coaxed a little whiskey between his frozen lips. It seemed to go in; she tipped in a little more, then tugged at the collar of his shirt. The linen was frozen stiff, but where the ice was thawing, it was limp and damp.

"No luck here," Letty straightened. "Right out of it, he is." She turned to Ginny.

"Lets get them upstairs. Once they are settled we will have to check on them through out the night."

"True enough." Letty turned to the stairs. "I'll make up the beds."

Ginny nodded, her attention on Harry. She administered a little more whiskey, then wrestled again with his shirt---and was rewarded when he swallowed.

"Here---have some more." She pressed the glass to his lips again. This time they parted. When she removed the glass, his tongue came out and gingerly dampened his chapped lips. When she offered the glass again, he drank deeply, then his eye lids flickered.

Grabbing the end of his scarf, Ginny gently wiped the shards of ice from his eyes and brow.

Beautiful, emerald green eyes slowly opened. He looked up, into her face. "Ginny?"

It took a moment to gather her wits. Seven years it had been since she'd last seen those eyes this close---close enough to feel their power. Green eyes---predator's eyes; they still held that primeval pull. "Yes, it's me," she finally managed. Then, realizing the cause of his befuddlement, she added, "I live here now."

She offered the fire whiskey again and he accepted another sip. "Can you sit?" Without waiting for an answer, she pushed and heaved, uncaring of the water splotches darkening her wool pants. She helped him raise his shoulders until he was sitting, but he was to weak to sit without her support.

Ginny frowned. "We need to get you out of your overcoat." Much of it was still heavily encrusted with ice.

Hands and arms and shoulders went everywhere, but with his help, clumsy though he was, she finally pulled the long drab coat, from him. She flung it aside, balancing him with one hand. All of his clothes were affected --all would have to come off.

"Give me some more of that fire whiskey."

She obliged. He took the glass from her, but she had to prop him up. She knew what he---his body, his muscled torso---should feel like; his deeply iced flesh sent a chill of fear through her.

He handed her the empty glass. "All right. Let's try it."

Removing his elegant, closely fitted coat was a much harder task than removing his loose overcoat. Despite the tussle, Ginny was grateful that he was awake enough to help.

Ginny pushed and pulled and shuffled him until he was close enough to the wall to lean back against it.

He did, closing his eyes. "Thank you."

Ginny was seriously alarmed. He was icy cold. So uncharacteristically weak. "Have some more firewiskey." She grabbed the decanter and filled the glass again, then pressed it into his hand. "I'm going to make sure your room is fixed."

She raced up the stairs, chased by a vision of his deathly pale face. Using her wand she made the pillows warm and moved the bed over by the roaring fire.

She ran into Letty in the hallway. "If you and Tim can manage Moony, I'll take care of Harry."

Letty made a swift glance about the rooms and nodded. "Let's bring them up, then."

Ginny left them to heft Moony between them and went to Harry's side. He was leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, the empty glass at his side. His linen shirt was damp and clinging, displaying the powerful muscles of his chest. As she crouched beside him, he murmured, "How's Moony,"

"He's still unconscious. They're taking him upstairs." Ginny squeezed his arm gently. "If I help, do you think you can manage the stairs?"

His lids slowly lifted. He met her gaze, then looked past her to the stairs. "Hmm." His lips twisted twisted slightly, his brows drew down, but his face was too stiff for him to frown properly. "We can but try."

Getting him on his feet was the first hurdle. Once Ginny was able to get him upright, he swayed and staggered. Ginny was glad there was no one to see them waltz drunkenly about her hall.

As they stumbled to a stop before the stairs, Harry looked down, into her face, and smiled. "Never waltzed with you, did I, Ginny?"

She looked down. "No, you never did. Now concentrate on the stairs or I'll use my wand on you and bounce you all the way up."

Harry grabbed the banister and after some effort, made it to the first step.

He paused on the step. "I'm on my way to Potter's Place, y'know."

"You said you were going home." Ginny tried to tug him on, but without his cooperation she couldn't shift him.

"Hmmmm---s'right. Home."

He started to take the next step. Ginny shot him a sharp glance as he paused again.  
"Had enough, y'know."

"Enough of what?" She paused, too, accepting that he'd go at his own pace.

"Them." It was with evident difficulty that he focused on her face. "You know what they call me?"

"I know you're called 'Scandalous Harry Potter.'"

The smile that twisted his lips was bitter. "The scandalous part's all they care 'bout----you know that?"

"I assumed that might be the case." Ginny managed to propel him to another step. Then another. She was hoping he'd continue on without pause when he abruptly drew back, nearly falling out of her arms. Only his grip on the banister saved him.

"Harpies! The lot of them."

He flung out an arm---Ginny had to duck, then she grabbed him again, more tightly.

"You must come upstairs---"

"That's 'xactly what they all tell me," He nodded and consented to climb another step. "Come upstairs---to my boudoir, my bedroom, my bed. Come into my arms, come into my---.

"Harry!" Ginny felt her cheeks heat. "You don't need to tell me about that."

Tilting his head, he looked down at her, the expression in his gorgeous green eyes puzzled. "But I always tell you everything, Ginny."

There was a lost look in his eyes that, entirely unexpectedly, wrenched Ginny's heart. "That was then, " she said gently, "this is now---and we have to get you upstairs."

She urged him on; after an instant hesitation he went. She could feel how stiff he was. She knew she had to warm him up quick. They reached the landing and she steered him on to the next flight of stairs. They were halfway up it when he abruptly halted, turning to look at her pulling out of her hold and leaning back----half over the banister!

Ginny gasped and grabbed him. He caught her in his free arm and hugged her to him. For an instant they teetered, then steadied.

"You're not like them, are you, Ginny?"

Her heart was in her throat---she couldn't answer. She prayed the banister was strong enough to hold their weight.

"You're my friend---you always have been. You don't want anything from me, not like they do."

Her forehead against his shoulder, Ginny closed her eyes and clung, too shaken to reply.

Then she felt him nuzzle the hair coiled on the top of her head, then trail lower to dip his nose behind her ear. He breathed in, deeply.

"You smell of the moor---all wild and free and open.

Ginny pulled back, out of his arms, hands locked in his shirt, arms braced for balance. "Up the next steps---come on, you can do it." She pushed and prodded, harried and bullied. Finally gaining the first floor, she blew out a breath, then staggered as he did.

"Harry!" "It's just a little further."

They looked like drunken seaman, making their way down the hallway. Ginny paused as they made it to the door. As she studied his face she noticed his eyes were almost shut. "If you fall asleep on me, I'll bat boogey you, do you hear me Harry."

His lips twisted, but his eyes remained closed. "Never ever fall asleep before a lady's satisfied. Carnal rule number one."

Ginny humphed. "In this case, I'm not going to be satisfied until you're out of those damp clothes and tucked up in bed." She pushed to door open.

"Out of my clothes, tucked into your bed---you're sounding like them, Ginny."

"Well, I'm not---Harry."

He pulled out of his arms and went lurching into the room and fell onto the bed.

Ginny regarded him, frowning. "Harry, when did you last eat?"

He settled on the bed, sitting straight, and frowned back at her as he thought. "Breakfast?"

Ginny humphed again. "No wonder! Your half drunk."

He sighed, then closed his eyes. "Tired. So tired..."

His voice died away, and he fell back across the bed.

"Harry." She shook his shoulder. "Come on, wake up."

He lay like one dead.

"Damn!" Sitting beside him, she glared at him. "How am I supposed to get you undressed?"

The answer was obvious. Heaving a sigh, Ginny crossed to the door and clicked the lock. She didn't want anyone coming in, seeing her strip Harry.

Returning to the bed, she surveyed her charge, then pushed and tugged until he lay straight in the middle of the wide bed.

He was still icy cold. The thought that he'd used his last ounce of strength in climbing the stairs spurred Ginny on. She yanked his collar open, then fell on the buttons. The material was damp, so the buttons were difficult to shift. She pulled her wand out of her pocked and muttered a spell that removed Harry's shirt from his body.

An instant later, she swayed---she'd forgotten to breathe.

She sucked in a breath, then went to work on his pants. "You've seen it all before, you ninny!"

But she hadn't. Eight years it had been, and eight years made a difference. Her senses insisted on pointing out each change---the dept of his chest, the heavier muscles, the changes in proportions. She was an artist after all, and her eyes couldn't stop seeing. She'd thought him an Adonis eight years ago; now...

She shook her head again and looked away.

Without giving her time to think, she used her wand to strip him of his remaining clothes. She then grabbed a towel and set to work, briskly rubbing him all over.

To her dismay, although she dried his back thoroughly, his flesh remained pale and icy cold. There was no warmth in him; not even when she pressed a hand under his stomach could she feel any hint of human heat.

Her heart began to feel as cold as his skin.

"Miss?" Tim knocked at the door. "I've brought hot water."

She swept up Harry's wet clothes and opened the door. "Thank you---take these to Aunt Pansy. But first warm some bricks and wrap them in flannel, then bring them up."

"Miss Pansy's already got the bricks ready."

"Good." she shut the door. Ginny carried the steaming water over to a nearby dresser. After testing the water, she grabbed a washcloth and climbed onto the bed, settling the basin of water beside her. Harry hadn't stirred.

She washed his face first, then washed the ice from his hair and rubbed it dry, then quickly worked her way down his body. Settling some towels to his side, she eased him over onto them. She threw a towel over his penis. She quickly set to washing away this side of his body, briskly buffing his skin dry as she went.

By the time she reached his hips, all modesty had flown---she was far too worried to care about propriety. There remained no sign of life in his body; fear tightened its grip on her heart.

Besides, she'd seen him naked before, touched him before---her memories were crystal clear. But when she held him again and found him so cold, it nearly broke her heart. She'd taken that part of him inside her--it had been so hot, so strong. He was presently so icy and so small--she didn't like this state at all.

She became more worried when his skin looked no better. No matter how hard she tried, she could raise no blood under his skin.

She rolled him on his stomach again to remove the wet coverlet, she tossed it aside and spread the down-filled quilt that had been warming by the fire over him.

She gathered up the towels and coverlet and hurried out of the room.

Five minutes later, she returned with the warming bricks.

She packed the bricks around Harry, then stood back.

There was nothing more she could do. This made her feel panicked.

She returned to the bed and checked, but he was still cold as ice.

The door opened; Letty looked in. "How is he?"

Ginny shook her head. "He's still so cold."

"Aye, well, all we can do now is keep them warm. I can watch over him, just as well as Mr. Lupin. No sense you getting up through the night, too."

"No--I'll watch here." She wouldn't sleep anyway, not until she knew he was alright. "Moony might wakeup and need something, or Harry might, and want something."

"True enough." Letty nodded at Harry. "S'pect he's a demanding soul, too.'

"He can be," Ginny murmured.

"Best we get to bed then, and get what sleep as we can. You finished here?"

Ginny roused herself. "Yes." With one last look at Harry, she crossed to the door. "It must be quite late."

"Gone eleven," Letty said.


	3. Chapter 3

OK- THIS IS WHERE THE 'M' RATING KICKS IN. SO DO NOT READ IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO READ A SEX SCENE.

WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING

At twelve o'clock Ginny returned to the room. She'd got into her bed but hadn't been able to sleep. How could she sleep when Harry might...

Be dying...

"Don't be silly," she muttered as she closed the door softly behind her. "There's no way a chill was going to kill Harry Potter. The man was almost indestructible.

Almost...

She charmed the fire to roar to life, then crossed to the bed. The room was warm now, but would cool during the night. She closed the side bed curtains but left those at the foot, directly opposite the fire, open; she hoped the heat would come in, then remain, trapped by the curtains.

She lifted the quilt and slipped one hand in, close to his body. No warmth met her fingers. When she touched his chest, his skin was still cold.

"Damn! I wish I had some pepper-up potion."

She stood and looked down at Harry's large body sprawled on his stomach under the quilt. He was far to cold.

"What more can I do?"

He was coming home. She couldn't let him die on the way. 

She didn't let herself think. She stripped off her robe, flung it to the foot of the bed, then lifted the quilt and climbed in beside him. She was wearing a long flannel nightgown---safe enough, surely. He would be used to silk--he'd probably think she was a lumpy pillow.

Turning on her side, her back to him, she curled and snuggled back, pressing against his side.

"Hmmm."

She froze.

Behind her, Harry shifted, then his body curled around hers. His hand found her hip, then traced lazily upward, over her waist, up to her breasts, then confidently slipped between, long fingers curling about one soft mound.

Ginny bit her lip and held her breath. An instant of still silence ensued.

She could feel the tension fall away from his body. He sank into the bed behind her and she heard the soft huff of his breath.

She listened to his breathing, then her eyes closed. He was sleeping. She was so relieved he was unaware she was sharing his bed. Misty-eyed, she ran her palm over the muscled arm around her, then ran her foot up and down his leg. His body felt like a cold compress down her back. His skin was still cold.

When she was sure he was thawing and it wasn't wishful thinking, she relaxed. 

Pulling the covers tight around them, she snuggled down and pressed herself even more firmly against him. His arm tightened, then relaxed. Reciting a mental reminder to wake up before dawn and get back to her own bed, Ginny closed her eyes...and slept.

And dreamed. It was the most wonderful dream---her favorite dream. This time it was sharper, more involving. Infinitely more sensually gratifying. In the dream, she purred and stretched under the hands that so artfully roamed. Hands that knew her, knew how to caress her so her skin flushed and heated, so her breasts filled and swelled and the peaks grew so tight they ached.

The fingers knew her too---knew to pluck lightly at her nipples to send the ache spreading, then slide away, tracing, teasing, gently taunting as they skated over her skin. They found her stomach, then slid lower to brush the curls between her thighs.

She sighed and smiled and parted her thighs- a hand helped her, lifting one knew, sliding that calf back over a hard thigh.

It was then that she realized what was different about this dream---her lover was behind her. It was his chest behind her, warm and comforting, not a sun-warmed rock.

Then his fingers found her and the discovery slid away into the mists of her mind. Passion rose---she welcomed it, let it take her, fill her, drive her. In her dreams, she could be who she really was, who she longed to be.

Dreams had no limits, no harsh realities.

Those wicked fingers played, teased, and her fever grew. When they were wet they left her. The hands gripped her hips, turning her to the bed, pushed her raised knee outward, upward.

The fingers returned, slipping between her thighs from behind. They found her entrance, slick with her desire; they spread her folds and opened her. She felt the hot, heavy bluntness of him slide between her thighs, guided by his fingers, then she felt the pressure and the heat as he pressed himself into her.

She relaxed as he had taught her, letting him in, allowing her body to adjust to his invasion. Slowly, steadily, he filled her until she was full. One large hand splayed over her stomach and tilted her hips back; his other hand slid beneath her, then closed about her breast.

He pressed deeper and she caught her breath. Then he eased back, just a little, then pressed deep again. With her bottom tucked against him, he repeated the movement, rocking her, the most pleasurable rocking imaginable.

Every thrust shifted her beneath him. Each repetitive movement heightened her sensitivity.

He surrounded her, his hard body flexing about hers, limbs like warm steel holding her safe, holding her to him. He gave to her as he always did, and she let herself flow with the tide, let her body flower for him, enclose him, love him.

Heat enveloped her. Just when she thought she would melt he drew back, almost all the way. He held her there, poised on the crest of fulfillment, then he filled her with one long, powerful thrust--and she fractured.

Delight and sharp pieces of sensation flew through her, piercing her. She woke with a start---her eyes flew wide. She just managed to chock back her gasp. Choke back the name that hovered on her lips.

Harry.

Closing her eyes, she let the reality roll through her. This was no dream. He was here, loving her again. Making her body come alive again, as only he could. Biting her lower lip, she held back her gasps, and let her body take him, let herself revel in the glow.

He was in no hurry. She could barely believe it when she realized he was driving her up to that peak of sensation again.

He did, and she tumbled over, and it was even more glorious. It was all she could do to keep from crying out.

This time she felt she'd died, that she could not move a muscle to save her life. He seemed to sense it; his thrusts lengthened, quickened, then he joined her in ecstasy. For one long moment he lay wrapped about her, buried inside her, then he nuzzled her nape, his lips found her ear and traced, then dipped to press warmly at the base of her throat. Then he lifted from her and slumped behind her, his body heavy in the bed. She felt his seed warm within her and she couldn't find it in her to be sad.

Couldn't regret it, any more than she had the first time. Lying with Harry, loving with Harry, had always felt right.

She waited, silent and still, as his breathing slowed and he slid back to sleep. Without a single word, without realizing. It was not yet dawn. He had shared a bed with so many women, she was just another to him. Another faceless female body, willing and wanton in the heated dark.

Heat. She could feel it all around, feel it radiating from him. He was well again; there was no sign of chill remaining in his body.

She lay beside him and drew in the memories, stored them up against the years ahead. Her flannel nightgown was pushed up to her shoulders; she had to leave it there until, with the first glimmer of daylight, she eased from his side.

She left him fully recovered, and deeply asleep. 


End file.
